A Hate Letter to Personal Statements

I find myself once again writing personal statements for grad school applications. Why I would do such a thing to myself again after so many years of not doing that, I have no clue. Perhaps I have a sadistic streak, an echo of my Catholic upbringing which manifests the typical emotional self-flagellation into a desire to apply to and inevitably get rejected from grad school. I could put applications in all day, don’t get me wrong. I love going over checklists and reaching out to old professors asking them sweetly if they would be so kind as to say nice things about me on the official record for Miscellaneous University and their Obscure College of the Performing Arts. But good God, dude, why do I have to write a damn personal statement for each and every one of these programs?

I have the same problem with applying to grown-up salaried jobs, of course. You have money to pay me with, and I have labor to give, so why should I write you a cover letter—basically fanfiction about what would happen if you hired me—just to have the privilege of you undervaluing that labor? And why, dearest university, should I write you a personalized statement detailing why you should do me the honor of burying me under a mountain more of student loan debt? Why should I perform passion for the opportunity to not be unaffiliated, directionless, and lacking in forward movement in my life, when that should be the baseline state of being for every human being?

It’s made worse, of course, by the fact that I am applying to programs in the arts. Truth be told, if I was instructed to write a two-page personal statement about how I always wanted to be a data analytics professional or whatever, I would be much more comfortable outsourcing that task to a ghostwriter, or perhaps even ChatGPT. (Don’t hate me, I’m just as anti-AI as you, dear reader, but you must admit it cuts down on the verbal taskwork dumped on the layperson.) Alas, I’m applying to playwriting programs, and as such, these statements of purpose are required to have a personal flair, reflect my voice as an artist for a program dedicated to helping me hone my voice as an artist. But here’s the thing: I’m submitting a creative portfolio, my dude. You want to understand what drives me as an artist? Read the 120-page monstrosity about Greek myths and artificial intelligence and a weirdly horny Shakespeare robot that I just attached to my application! Why else is it there? You want to make sure I’m a competent playwright, the thing your program exists to teach me how to be? Good lord.

Perhaps I would feel better if I received some applause for my efforts, but ultimately, what I’ll receive is an impersonal rejection letter, or maybe, if my wordslop personal statement is of especially quality chum today, a personal rejection letter. Why am I sitting at my keyboard, giving the best performance of my life to a dead crowd? Why wouldn’t I just perform standup at a funeral? I can’t imagine what it must be like to be the one reviewing these personal statements. You could receive the most diverse set of statements in absolute poetry, but I figure after such a long time of reviewing them, of reading a million prospective students’ pleas for education and the songs and dances they devise to catch your eye, it all just becomes so boring. Why am I paying a $60 application fee just to bore you? Why am I wasting my time? Why am I wasting your time?

You have a good that I desire, and I have a significant debt to incur. Why can’t we just make a deal?